


Here's Looking At You

by zimriya



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: A Mr and Mrs. Smith fusion, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Enjolras is Angelina Jolie, Established Relationship, M/M, Marriage, So Married, and he does wear the boots, by the way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zimriya/pseuds/zimriya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Grantaire decides to marry Enjolras, he does so with the assumption that there will be regular and fabulous sex, and that there will be no shooting, murdering, killing, blowing up of apartments, holding friends for hostage, or any of the other things Grantaire associates with being an assassin for hire.</p><p>And to be fair, that wasn’t an all together unreasonable assumption, so really, none of this is Grantaire’s fault.</p><p>Or Mr and Mr Enjolras</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Casablanca, b/c I refused to call it Mr and Mr Enjorlas and I followed the etymology of 'espionage' back to 'to look at.' Betaed by Murf, as always. All other mistakes are my own.
> 
> Disclaimer: I have no idea how to gun. Google has the evidence of this--most of this is me frantically reading all the extensive information guides that the Inception fandom once upon a time put out into this universe, if there are any mistakes please tell me.

**Part 1**

\--

When Grantaire decides to marry Enjolras, he does so with two assumptions. They are not ridiculous assumptions. He does not assume there will be no fighting, because Grantaire is not an idiot, and the first thing he and Enjolras had done upon ditching the Parisian authorities was have an argument about who was taking the bed in Grantaire’s hotel room; never mind that it was _Grantaire’s_ hotel room.

He does not assume that there will be meeting of the in-laws, because frankly Grantaire does not want Enjolras anywhere near any of his own parents, nor does he want to be anywhere near Enjolras’ parents. For self preservation reasons; it has nothing to do with the way Enjolras’ eyes had gone dark when Grantaire had mentioned walking down aisles and being given away.

He doesn’t even assume that their marriage is going to be sunshine and rainbows and also maybe kittens. Not that Grantaire has ever assumed that _anything_ is going to be sunshine and rainbows and maybe also kittens, except for actual sunshine and rainbows and kittens. But still.

When Grantaire decides to marry Enjolras, he does so with the assumption that there will be regular and fabulous sex, and that there will be no shooting, murdering, killing, blowing up of apartments, holding friends for hostage, or any of the other things Grantaire associates with being an assassin for hire.

The sex thing, as it turned out, happened to be incredibly accurate and far exceeded Grantaire’s expectations; the other things... not so much. But to be fair, _no one_ marries their significant other with the assumption that they’re an assassin for hire, so really, none of this is Grantaire’s fault.

From the less than impressed look on Courfeyrac’s face, he does not agree.

“Okay, run me through it again?” says Courfeyrac. He gestures for another round, and Grantaire debates resting his head on the table.

“You know the guy who ruined the hit on Valjean the other day?” he says, instead.

“Yeah?” Courfeyrac is swirling the drink around in his glass, making the liquid slosh about in soothing circles. It’s a little dizzying, and this really should bother Grantaire, but seeing as he himself has already drowned more shots than he probably should, he figures it’s a good thing at least one of them is sober. Courfeyrac throws back his drink; Grantaire amends that last thought to ‘partially sober.’

“Turns out it wasn’t just some guy.”

“Oh?”

Their drinks arrive, and Grantaire downs his without pause. “No,” he continues, miserably. “Turns out it was Enjolras.”

Courfeyrac does an admirable job not choking on his own drink. “What?” he gets out, a few seconds later, voice somewhat raspy. “I mean, Enjolras? Like, your Enjolras? As in the man you decided to shack up with in Paris while on the run a few years back? The one who can’t cook to save his life and yet keeps inviting me over for dinner?”

Grantaire gives up on pretense and rests his head on the table.

“That Enjolras?” continues Courfeyrac, sounding somewhat frantic. His voice has gone all high and squeaky.

Grantaire’s right cheek is digging uncomfortably into the counter top, so he shifts a little so that he can rest most of his face on one arm.

“Grantaire?” Courfeyrac sounds actually concerned now, and his voice is taking on a tone that Grantaire knows from experience can only end badly.

“Yeah,” he says, before his friend decides to do something stupid like spill alcohol on him. “That Enjolras.”

“Oh,” says Courfeyrac, very small. “Well, fuck. That’s--” he breaks off and gestures for yet another round. “Fuck,” he finishes.

“Pretty much,” says Grantaire. He takes the drink set in front of him, heaves his head up, and swallows it in one disappointed gulp. “Pretty much.”

The alcohol burns a little on the way down, but Grantaire finds he doesn’t particularly care, at this point. Either way, he’s not nearly drunk enough for this, and it’s really not fair how deeply ingrained his self preservation instincts are at this point. Grantaire would like to drown his sorrows in expensive liquor and wake up naked in someone’s bed, but he can’t. He can’t, because Grantaire has more enemies than he has fingers and toes combined, and because Grantaire’s conscience has taken on a remarkably uncanny resemblance to a certain blond-haired, blue-eyed, apparently-also-assassin.

“So, um,” says Courfeyrac, eventually, breaking him out of his reverie. “What are you going to do about it?” He pauses, somewhat awkwardly. “Enjolras, I mean.”

Grantaire lets out long breath and gazes down at his hands, sadly. “I don’t know,” he says. “Not go home, though.”

“Oh,” says Courfeyrac, again.

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, still sadly. He gives his glass a shake, before setting it down on the bar, and letting his arms settle back onto the surface, only to startle when his phone starts buzzing. When he pulls it out of his pocket to look at it, it’s Enjolras.

Grantaire sighs. “Speak of the devil,” he says.

Courfeyrac makes an awkward, faint sounding noise.

“Courfeyrac?” says Grantaire, glancing to his side.

 “That’s a terrible thing to say about your husband,” says Enjolras, right before he punches Grantaire in the face.

It’s a fabulous punch--Enjolras leads with his left foot, folds his thumb outside of his fist, and swings his arm in a neat, clean, power-filled arc. Grantaire’s last thought, typically, is how very pretty he looks doing so.

\--

Grantaire wakes up, and instantly every muscle in his body is tensed. He’s in his own bed, which he can tell by the slide of the luxury sheets he remembers fighting with Enjolras for, and by the slightly uncomfortable tilt of his head that suggests he’s not on his side of the bed. He’s also not alone, which he can tell by the uncomfortable itch that’s starting to settle into his shoulders. He’d never quite managed to kick the adrenalin surge that accompanied that buzz, not even when heavy lidded, too-blue eyes trailing down his sides meant the opposite of running for his life. It’s probably helpful, at this point in time, that his heart has started beating just a touch faster, because as it turns out, Enjolras has zip-tied his hands behind his back.

“You did that on purpose,” he says, about the bed-thing, without opening his eyes.

There is a moment of silence, and for a moment, Grantaire worries that he’s misjudged and is alone, but then Enjolras is sighing. “Did what?” he says.

Grantaire keeps his eyes closed. “You know what,” he says, louder than he would normal, as he manages to get a wrist free. Enjolras has left far too many inches between skin and plastic, and it’s easy. Grantaire would grin, if he wasn’t certain that Enjolras had done that on purpose as well.

“No, actually,” says Enjolras. “Enlighten me?”

Grantaire groans, mostly for effect, before flicking his eyes open and focusing on their ceiling light. They have a standard two light system, with an inexpensive fan and little else, and Grantaire really can’t justify staring up at the immobile blades for as long as he does. When he gets himself into an awkward seated position, he finds Enjolras staring back at him, arms crossed tightly over his chest, and beautiful mouth turned down.

“What?” he says, when Grantaire just stares at him. “Stop that.”

Grantaire has to take a few moments to just look at him, in an obscene, thorough, and if they weren’t married, probably lecherous way. As they are married, the slow drag of his eyes down the expanse of Enjolras’ bare forearms and black, cashmere sweater, only serves to make Enjolras shudder. It’s infinitesimal, barely-there, and only noticeable to Grantaire because he’s looking for it.

“I find I don’t know what you mean,” he says, finally, when Enjolras’ lips start to purse. He rolls his shoulder back a little, stretching out the vertebrae of his spine, before settling more solidly against the headboard. _Their_ headboard.

There should be something oddly poetic about this scenario, Grantaire decides. If it weren’t for the fact the second to last time he’d Enjolras had been on the wrong end of the barrel of a sniper rifle, he would have been pleased to be zip-tied and naked in their bed--because he is, actually, completely and utterly naked.

“What?” snaps Enjolras, reading something into Grantaire’s silence.

“I don’t know what to say,” says Grantaire still grinning. “I think I should be flattered, though.”

“What?” repeats Enjolras, but there’s some honest befuddlement coloring his tone. He looks entirely displeased by the situation, down to the sockless, shoeless bare feet, and the sweater sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

Grantaire smirks. “You remembered,” he explains, shaking off the blankets so that he can curl a leg up and around in search of a pillow. He probably could do it without the leg, but the slight bob of Enjolras’ Adam’s apple when his eyes light on the flesh of Grantaire’s left thigh is entirely worth it. “‘The key to my release lies beneath this pillow?’” he quotes, brightly.

Enjolras continues to stare at him, somewhat blankly.

“Sherlock Holmes?” says Grantaire. “The movie we watched the other night?” He licks his lips. “Nothing?”

Enjolras’ face does that thing where his features freeze, but Grantaire can tell from the flick of his eyes, that he’s thinking.

“No?”

Enjolras’ tongue darts out to wet his own lips.

Grantaire sighs. “I suppose you’re lucky you’re pretty,” he says. “I have no idea why I married you.”

“I should say the same,” says Enjolras, and for once, his tendency to say exactly what he means and feels makes Grantaire’s entire body tense. It’s hard to hide, be it that he is naked, and so of course Enjolras notices. His face softens, eyes going a shade gentle, and Grantaire very pointedly looks away.

“R,” Enjolras begins, gently, in what Grantaire has come to associate with his tours, and usually ends with them talking about their feelings.

“Shut up,” snaps Grantaire.

His cheeks feel like they’re well on their way to on fire, and he can’t quite get himself to look Enjolras in the face, yet, but that’s no reason to start talking about their feelings. Because they will, at this point, since Grantaire is for all intents and purposes tied to the bed and naked, and Enjolras is making that face like he can’t quite decide if what he wants to do is shake his head, or hug Grantaire.

Grantaire isn’t sure which he would prefer. His mouth seems to make the decision for him, though, since he finds himself adding, awkwardly, “I mean, can we talk about something else.”

“Okay,” says Enjolras, reasonably. “What would you like to talk about, then?”

Grantaire considers gaping at him, mostly for effect, but settles for shifting a little on the bed so that he can get his legs under him. By some miracle, the sheet doesn’t dislodge. Grantaire ends up glancing down at it with amusement. “If this isn’t some sort of elaborate reenactment scene,” he says, “care to explain the nudity?” He pauses. “Unless, is the denial part of the reenactment scene?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but almost smiles, and finally uncrosses his arms. “Your mind would go there, wouldn’t it,” he says, somewhat dryly. “But no, the reason you’re naked is the considerable number of weapons you had on your person.” He rubs at his left wrist with his right hand, mouth twisting upwards. There is a thin patch of faint, untanned skin where Grantaire knows the watch he gave him usually sits.

A quick glance at their dresser reveals that it’s not there either, and Grantaire can’t quite fight the sudden dropping of his stomach when it occurs to him that _maybe Enjolras threw it out_. But then, Enjolras would never throw out something that expensive--not out of any sort of misguided sense of guilt, or anything, but more because he’d probably think to give it as a gift. Never mind that it was custom engraved and that it made an obnoxiously juvenile part of Grantaire go a bit fluttery whenever he saw it adorning Enjolras’ wrist. (The only other thing that had that affect on him was the love bites, but Grantaire had found that Enjolras was much more likely to wear the watch out in public than he was those.)

When Grantaire’s brain reengages, it’s to find Enjolras gazing at him with an odd mix of amused and adoring on his face. Grantaire isn’t quite sure when he’s supposed to get used to that expression, but he figures if it was going to happen, it would have happened sometime during the last five years.

“Did you say something?” he says, finally, when it becomes clear that Enjolras is either staring him down, or waiting for a response.

“No,” says Enjolras, simply. “I’m just waiting for you to stop pretending to still be tied up.”

Every muscle in Grantaire’s body locks into place. Again. “Oh,” he says. “Any, um, reason for that?”

“Not really,” says Enjolras. “Only, I’ve been working on my throwing skills, and I’ve been looking for an opportunity to test them out.”

Grantaire opens his mouth, and closes it. He pictures Enjolras in black, skin tight, full body clothes, with shuriken; he pictures Enjolras completely naked, holding a knife--licking a knife. The room is suddenly stifling.

“Is it hot in here for you?” he asks, bringing up his free hand to fan at his face and tightening his leg muscles so that when Enjolras flings the first knife, he doesn’t move so much as an inch.

It goes flashing past his face to land in embedded in the headboard with a dull and ultimately anticlimactic thud.

“The headboard, really?” says Grantaire, making a noise in the back of his throat. “I really liked this headboard,” he continues, “you did too--it has all of these lovely slats for you to grab onto--”

The next knife ends up about an inch from where Grantaire’s fingers are playing on the wood.

“Oops,” says Enjolras, but when Grantaire looks, he can see he’s blushing.

“Right,” he says. He reaches out to pull the knife free, and has to use more force than he expects. “Huh.” It comes free with a harsh tug and sends him forward jolting a little. “That was--that was a lot stronger than I--you probably could have k--” He breaks off, blinks, and sighs. “You’re angry at me, aren’t you?”

The third knife doesn’t end up anywhere near Grantaire’s person; the knife ends up balanced between Enjolras’ fingers, a flash of deadly silver in the otherwise bare room.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Very funny.” Grantaire had argued, initially, for come color in the room in the form of paint on the walls, but back then Enjolras had other ways of winning arguments that involved far more screaming and far less knives.

“I could scream, though,” Grantaire realizes. “I mean, that might cause something of a stir with our neighbors. Don’t give me that look, I know you know we have neighbors--they ambushed you our first week here and taught you how to make pie.”

Enjolras stares at him; nearly gob smacked and annoyed both. His mouth has gone somewhat slack, and he’s almost grinning. When Grantaire starts to grin back, he seems to come back to himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on,” says Grantaire, rolling his eyes. “You don’t expect me to believe that you made that pie yourself?”

Enjolras is worrying quiet.

“You do?” Grantaire shifts his grip on the knife in his hand. “Really?”

“I had help.” Enjolras looks a little pink, but also less tense. Grantaire is counting that as a win.

“What, did Combeferre come over and help...you,” says Grantaire, faltering when Enjolras abruptly looks away from. He looks right back instantly, eyes caught on the dance of the blade in Grantaire’s hand, but the moment is already cast in iron in Grantaire’s memory. “Wait,” he says. “Hold on. Is Combeferre--Combeferre’s not really a glorified nanny, is he--”

“Private Tutor,” interjects Enjolras.

Grantaire shakes his head and sends the knife in his hand flicking past Enjolras’ left shoulder and into their bedroom wall. “Whatever,” he says. “The point still stands--you _lied_ to me.”

Enjolras’ mouth opens and closes. “I have no idea what to say to that,” he says, finally.

“‘I’m sorry?’” Grantaire suggests, reaching out to fish for another knife. “That’s the gold standard for apologies, I’m pretty sure.”

“Apologies,” repeats Enjolras. The hand not holding the knife clenches awkwardly at his thigh, and Grantaire has a sudden flash of Enjolras wearing nothing but _thigh holsters_. With guns. _Loaded guns_.

His throat is dry. “Um,” he says. “Yeah?”

“For what, exactly?”

Grantaire gives him a look, and twirls the knife a few times. “Lying to me.” He flips the knife through the air. “Honestly, Enjolras. I’m starting to doubt that you’re even in the game, let alone my biggest competition.”

The knife in Enjolras’ hand ends up in the wall somewhere to the right of Grantaire’s head; it takes off a few strands of his hair on the way, and Grantaire ends up looking down at them on the bed, sadly. They paint an odd picture with the zip ties next to them, and he can’t quite figure out if he should be laughing or crying.

“You were saying?” says Enjolras.

“You lied to me about Combeferre,” says Grantaire.

“What?” Enjolras blinks, and then starts sputtering, so Grantaire flings his own knife across the room, making no pretense of grazing Enjolras like before, so that his husband has to duck to avoid losing an eye. “Would you--” tries Enjolras.

Grantaire pulls the third knife free of the wood, and throws that one for good measure.

“Would you stop doing that?” persists Enjolras, still crouching close to the ground.

“Nope,” says Grantaire. He gets up, ignoring the slight hitch of Enjolras’ breath when he leaves the sheet, and heads over to his bedside table. “Not until you apologize.”

“Apologize,” says Enjolras, in that same dubious, deadpan tone.

Grantaire is half listening, mostly focused on finding the Browning he has stashed in the drawer. “Yeah,” he says, fingers find the gun and magazine right where he left them.

“For not telling you about Combeferre,” continues Enjolras. He sounds less off put, but no less stubborn.

Grantaire pauses to sigh. “Yes,” he says.

“Right.”

Enjolras’ voice is suddenly much closer, and Grantaire looks up, gun in hand, to find himself staring down the barrel of--and here Grantaire actually has to fall back on the bedside table and make a terrible face--Enjolras’ Glock. It is incredibly hard for Grantaire not to make some sort of reference to hand strength, in the face of that.

“Like Courfeyrac is actually an actor,” says Enjolras, like he isn’t currently holding Grantaire at gunpoint.

Grantaire gives the gun another long look, lips curving into a smile, and finishes loading the magazine. “He is, actually,” he says, over the click, and cocks the gun. “But only on the side. Mostly Courfeyrac blows things up.” And kills people, occasionally, but Enjolras hasn’t been at all forthcoming on the Combeferre issue, so Grantaire’s not about to tell him that.

Enjolras frowns at him, and Grantaire lifts his own gun in response, left hand curling around his right automatically and index finger full extended and at the ready. He leaves the safety on partly because something ugly clenches in his stomach every time he so much as thinks of hurting Enjolras, and also as a test.

“So wait,” says Enjolras. “Those commercials we sat through--”

“Were actually real, yes,” says Grantaire. He shudders. “Sadly.”

Enjolras looks torn between glee and despair. “Ah,” he says.

“Yeah,” agrees Grantaire.

Enjolras’ eyes dart down briefly. “Could you--could you put on some clothes, please?”

Grantaire blinks. “Why?” he says, somewhat loftily, “does it distract you? My being naked, I mean.”

“No.” Enjolras twitches, which would worry Grantaire, but he notes that the safety is still on on his gun as well.

He lowers his weapon, but doesn’t make a move to cover himself up.

“What are you doing?” says Enjolras, shortly.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” points out Grantaire.

Enjolras’ gun comes down quickly. “You weren’t going to shoot me, either,” he replies, stiffly.

Grantaire grins. “No,” he agrees, fingers catching on the bed sheet considering. “I probably should, though.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes at him, cautious, even as Grantaire slides the magazine free of the gun and sets them back into the drawer.

“Your turn.”

He doesn’t know where Enjolras’ Glock goes, because Enjolras makes an outraged sort of noise, before pivoting on his heel and striding into their walk-in closet. Grantaire isn’t entirely certain why they have a walk-in closet, but when Enjolras emerges sans weapon carrying a pair of what Grantaire is relatively sure are his _own_ boxers, he does have to wonder.

“Question,” he says. “Do you actually have a model worthy wardrobe, as Courfeyrac puts it--”

Enjolras makes a sour face.

“Or are we really playing host to more illegal firearms than probably is healthy?”

Enjolras throws the boxers at him. “Put those on,” he says, “and I don’t think any number of illegal firearms is healthy.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” says Grantaire, pulling the boxers off of his face and holding them in front of his chest. “One is probably healthy--that’s just being cautious.”

“Cautious,” parrots Enjolras. That’s the third time he’s done that this entire conversation, and Grantaire is seriously worried that he married a tropical bird.

“Cautious,” says Grantaire. “Why am I putting these on?”

“Just do it,” says Enjolras, absently.

Grantaire blinks. “Why?” he says, to be contrary, and Enjolras’ eyes flash.

“So that I can beat you within an inch of your life,” he says, voice a low growl.

Grantaire swallows heavily but bends to pull the boxers on. “That seems counterproductive,” he points out, “particularly if you’re going to continue using that tone--”

His sentence gets cut off when Enjolras lunges for him, spinning in close and snarling. Grantaire’s hands come up on automatic, and he shifts his weight onto his back foot. “You lied to me,” Enjolras says, voice, still no more than a rumble.

“That voice!” Grantaire says, brightly, twisting on his feet and stepping back and away from the reach of Enjolras’ fists. “If you want me to stay clothed, it’s not helping matters much.”

“I--you--” says Enjolras. “Fuck you.” His arm connects with Grantaire’s, the slap of skin not quite painful and loud in the quiet of their breath.

“Yes,” says Grantaire. “That is the idea.”

“Oh my god,” says Enjolras. “You’re--you’re the most infuriating. Dimwitted. Single-minded. Artistically talented. Piece-of-shit I’ve ever met.” He punctuates each insult with a well placed jab, several of which hit, and Grantaire very quickly decides that their bedroom is not the place for this.

When Enjolras moves forward again, he ducks down, under, twisting his way free and heading for the door. He considers snagging a knife or two, but thinks better when he catches sight of Enjolras’ face.

“See,” Grantaire says, as he’s fleeing towards the kitchen. “I’m pretty sure the artist thing isn’t as insulting as you think it is.”

Enjolras, obviously, has no such qualms about the knives, and after one goes whizzing by Grantaire’s head, he rethinks the kitchen plan.

“Seriously,” he says, halfway to the living room. “I’m pretty sure that’s almost a compliment--if you weren’t currently in the process of trying take my head off with your admittedly fabulous aim--” He ducks the second knife. “--I would take it as such.”

“It wasn’t,” says Enjolras, almost viciously. “I bet you don’t even own an art gallery.”

Grantaire whirls to face him. “Take that back. You leave baby out of this.”

“I bet it’s not even an art gallery,” snaps Enjolras, undeterred. “I bet it’s some sort of super secret base.”

“Why would baby be a super secret base--”

“Or something even worse,” spits Enjolras. “It could be a front.”

“A front,” says Grantaire.

“For like drugs,” continues Enjolras. “Or women.”

“Or--or _women--_ Enjolras you have _met_ me, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” snarls Enjolras, moving towards Grantaire quickly. He has a knife in his right hand, and Grantaire puts both of his up.

“And of course it’s a real art gallery!” he protests. “Why wouldn’t it be a real art gallery?”

“Are you telling me you’re actually traveling for art related things?”

“Well, no,” concedes Grantaire. “But I mean, yes! Yes, occasionally I pick up paintings!”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

“After I kill people,” finishes Grantaire.

Enjolras lowers his eyebrow in an incredibly arrogant and irksome manner.

Grantaire narrows his eyes. “What are you trying to say about baby,” he says.

Enjolras throws his final knife at him. “Stop calling it that!” he shrieks. “It is a fucking _building_!”

Grantaire frowns at him. “Enjolras,” he says, slowly. “Is this about something other than the fact that both of us were hiding our true professions from each other?”

For a moment Enjolras’ mouth hangs open, before it snaps shut and he make a ridiculous noise. “No!” he replies, voice high. “Why would it be?”

“I don’t know, you just seem somewhat stressed.”

“Stressed.”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire. “And also, you keep repeating things I say, which is a little worrying so maybe we should think about calling Joly--”

“We are not calling Joly!” shouts Enjolras, and tackles him.

Grantaire--Grantaire pretty much goes down, arms wind-milling helplessly, to hit their living room couch with a dull thud.

“Ow,” he groans.

“You’re awful,” agrees Enjolras.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” continues Grantaire.

“So very, very awful,” agrees Enjolras, and tips his head up so that they meet halfway.

\--

“I think that has to be the most ridiculous argument we’ve ever had,” says Grantaire, finally. They’ve curled up in an awkward bundle of limbs still on the couch, but the couch is wrong side around now, and most of the pillows and cushions are scattered around them. Grantaire is on his stomach, legs pleasantly tingling, and Enjolras has been tracing odd patterns (escape routes for their house, Grantaire’ treacherous brain points out) onto his lower back with one nail.

When Grantaire opens his mouth, he stops somewhere around their basement. “What?” His voice has taken on the dangerous, ‘you are about to do or say something incredibly stupid, and I am going to warn you’ tone that make Grantaire swallow.

“Not the one about the lying,” he is quick to clarify, “the one about the boxers.”

“The one about the boxers,” says Enjolras, and Grantaire almost thinks he’s serious until he looks up and finds him grinning.

“Shut up,” he says, cuffing him gently about the head.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, as if to say, ‘I’m not the one who compared their significant other to a parrot.’

Grantaire finds he can’t be angry at him when he looks like that. “To be fair you were repeating everything I said,” he says.

Enjolras scoffs. “That’s because everything you said was ridiculous.” He makes a face, but then his lips quirk. “Boxer conversation included.”

Grantaire grins. “Ridiculous,” he says. “So you agree with me.”

Enjolras full out smiles and he rolls over onto his side so that he can better stare at Grantaire. “I never said that,” he says.

“No,” agrees Grantaire. “But you did try to yell at me for wearing too many clothes.”

“You were,” Enjolras argues, but Grantaire can tell it’s mostly for show.

“Only because you told me too,” he throws back, yawning a little and stretching the kinks out of his back and neck. “Which was stupid--was there a point to that little exercise?”

“I wasn’t about to fight you while you were naked,” Enjolras replies, voice somewhat haughty.

“Why?” says Grantaire. “Were you worried you’d be distracted and end up fucking my brains out?”

“No.” Enjolras’ ears are a little pink.

“Because you ended up distracted,” continues Grantaire, “and fucked my brains out.”

“Well, obviously not entirely,” says Enjolras, “seeing as you seem to keep talking.”

Grantaire considers that. “My self-preservation instincts, maybe?” he says.

Enjolras rests hand against Grantaire’s lower back, the point of contact warm and possessive all at once. “Are you sure you had those to begin with?” he says.

Grantaire laughs. “Very funny,” he says.

“No, seriously,” Enjolras continues. “When you botched the Valjean hit--”

“Oh, excuse me?” says Grantaire. “When _I_ botched the Valjean hit?” He rolls himself over so that he can better frown at Enjolras, who looks back at him with a raised eyebrow. “Stop that.” Grantaire reaches out to stroke a thumb along the fine hairs as he speaks. “I keep telling you your face is going to stick like that.”

“Are you saying you didn’t botch the Valjean hit?” says Enjolras, seemingly unconcerned. He doesn’t move away from Grantaire’s touch, however.

“Actually, I wasn’t going to say that _anyone_ had botched the Valjean hit,” says Grantaire. “But now that you mention it, probably the Valjean hit would have gone better if you hadn’t interfered.”

“Right,” says Enjolras, “because obviously it’s my fault. Need I remind you that I got there first.”

“I’m just saying that I had everything under control before you came in guns blazing--” Grantaire doesn’t get to finish talking, because Enjolras slaps a hand over his mouth.

“Stop talking,” he says.

Grantaire licks his hand, which does nothing but remind him of just what that hand had been doing several minutes ago, and doesn’t make Enjolras reprimand him.

“Do you hear that?”

Grantaire opens his mouth, breathes against Enjolras’ hand, and blinks. And then blinks. And then _frowns_. From the back of the house, Grantaire can just make out the faint thump of footsteps.

He catches Enjolras’ eyes, notes the way Enjolras’ fingers have already gone slack around his jaw, and presses a quick kiss to the skin there. He nods. _I hear them_.

Enjolras nods, moving to take his hand off of Grantaire’s face, when all of a sudden Grantaire sees red.

Literally.

There is a tiny speck of light, flashing along Enjolras’ right pectoral, and Grantaire is rolling them and the couch up over them, heart pounding, to gunshots, thudding into their floor.

“I don’t suppose those are yours--” Grantaire tries to say, before Enjolras silences him with a pointed and venomous look. Grantaire is going to say _not_ his guys, then. Not Grantaire’s either, which is worrying. That they’re both still naked, is rather unfortunate.

 “Do you have a plan?” says Enjolras, somewhat quietly, when Grantaire twists away to see if he can reach his abandoned boxers. He pulls them on, tosses Enjolras his own pair and a shirt, and slams their way into the kitchen. Bullets go thudding into the walls as he goes, and it occurs to him that possibly he should be thinking and waiting for Enjolras, but when he ducks down behind their island, the other man is right alongside him, barely breathing.

Grantaire considers their position, reviews the house layout, and pauses. “It is possible that my closet is downstairs,” he says finally.

“What?” says Enjolras.

“My _closet_ ,” repeats Grantaire. “Filled with. Clothes.” He waits for Enjolras to get it; Enjolras does not appear to get it. “Guns,” he clarifies. “I have a bunch of guns downstairs.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras. “Good plan, then.”

“Fabulous,” says Grantaire. “After you.”

“Wait a second,” Enjolras says, on the stairs. “This seems like a bad idea--there’s no way out.”

“Aw, come on,” says Grantaire, snagging his hiking boots and tugging them on (mostly so Enjolras is forced to pull on the knee high red rain-boots that Courfeyrac bought him for his last birthday.) “What could go wrong?”

“I cannot believe you said that,” says Enjolras, making a face.

He continues making that face, even as their would-be assassins get tired of hunting for them with guns and decides to chuck a few grenades into the basement, and even as they go back up the stairs, guns in hands, just in time for their house to explode.

“So, you were right,” says Grantaire into the silence. “The basement was not a good idea.”

Enjolras hits him; be it that he’s currently standing next to Grantaire in too-tight boxer briefs, an open button down shirt, and knee high red boots, Grantaire finds that he doesn’t care. He’s probably going to have to send Courfeyrac some sort of thank you card, however, and that’s depressing.

“Stop staring at me like that,” says Enjolras, before Grantaire can voice his displeasure. “And say nothing.”

Grantaire considers speaking regardless, and Enjolras just looks at him.

“Nothing,” he repeats. “Now come on. We need a car.”

Grantaire would like the record to show that he says nothing, however he would also like it to show that Enjolras’ ass, and Enjolras’ legs, are only made more fabulous by the knee high, red boots.

 


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by Murf, as always. All other mistakes are my own.
> 
> Disclaimer: Still have no idea how to gun. Google has the evidence of this--most of this is me frantically reading all the extensive information guides that the Inception fandom once upon a time put out into this universe, and asking my sibling. If there are any mistakes please tell me.

**Part 2**

\--

Enjolras spends most of the car ride critiquing Grantaire’s aim and driving like some sort of man possessed, all the while dissecting their web of lies like some sort of terrible pro; Grantaire spends most of the car ride fielding invasive and frankly insulting questions (“No, Enjolras, you may not ask me about the dog I had as a child--why the fuck would I lie about that?”) all the while hanging out of the window shooting at the vans pursuing them.

“I’m just saying, it’s not unreasonable to assume that nothing you’ve told me has been the truth--”

“You sound like some sort of movie script,” interrupts Grantaire, putting a hand on the wheel and turning it sharply to the left, giving him enough moment to send a bullet crashing through the front windshield of Foreboding Black Van number one. “And you know as well as I that covers involve shades of truth.”

“Is that all this was, then?” retorts Enjolras, crossly. He shoves Grantaire’s hand off the steering wheel, but the fact that he grips it tight so that Grantaire doesn’t end up falling to his doom softens the gesture. “A cover?”

“You know very well it was not,” snaps Grantaire. “Now shut up and drive.”

Foreboding Black Van numbers two and three are somewhat harder to lose, but they manage it, breaking more traffic laws than Grantaire knows of, and fighting each other the whole way.

When they finally pull off of the highway and hit their first red light, Grantaire takes the moment to consider their options. They’re currently wearing nothing but their underwear, in a car littered with bullet holes, running terribly low on their own ammunition, on the run from possibly the very same agencies that wanted them to kill each other, and also Enjolras is wearing knee-high, red rain boots. That last one is the most immediate, the most important, and the only thing Grantaire is really able to do anything about.

“Hold this,” he tells Enjolras, and hands him his gun, before unlocking his door and storming out of the car. The driver next to them is very quick to hand over his iPhone, hand shaking, and even waves them goodbye as they pull away.

“What was that for?” says Enjolras.

“Say cheese,” says Grantaire, snapping a picture. He very quickly emails it to all three of his emails, and also Courfeyrac with the note: _I believe thank you drinks are in order_.

Enjolras is not at all impressed. “Give me the phone,” he says.

“No can do,” says Grantaire. “We are thoroughly out of options, and luckily for you, I happen to know plenty of people who could be of some help.”

“So do I,” says Enjolras, deadpan. “And mine are more likely to not be hungover.”

Grantaire winces. “Ouch,” he says, but hands the phone over anyway. It is true--Eponine and Bahorel, at least, he knew are on some sort of extended vacation that involved more sex, alcohol, and gambling than Grantaire needed to know about; Feuilly is out of the country on an op in Poland; and Courfeyrac is too close to the people who Grantaire is relatively certain want them dead.

“Jehan,” says Enjolras, into the phone, and Grantaire chokes on his next inhale.

“Prouvaire,” he gasps out, when Enjolras turns to frown at him, even as he listens to the other man on the phone. “Jehan Prouvaire?”

Enjolras shoots him a look that seems to say, ‘do we know any other Jehan Prouvaires?’ but all Grantaire can focus on is how the last time he saw sweet, innocent, taller than he had any right to be Jehan Prouvaire, it was laughing over boiling water after the man had chased Enjolras out of the kitchen with the orders to do work. Jehan Prouvaire is the exact opposite of dangerous, likely to hurt you, and the last person Grantaire would have expected Enjolras to call. He is also, apparently, perfectly willing to help them out, as Enjolras is hanging up the phone and looking smug before Grantaire can so much as finish gaping.

“He’s going to put out some feelers, and his house should be safe,” says Enjolras. “I mean it--Jehan has some dealings with the mob.”

Grantaire is starting to feel a little faint. “Jehan Prouvaire has had dealings with the mob,” he says. He’s starting to understand how Enjolras felt repeating everything back to him, though he’s pretty sure Enjolras’ head wasn’t airy and his ear didn’t ring. “Jehan Prouvaire is a mobster. Jehan. Prouvaire. Mobster. Next you’re going to tell me Joly sells weapons on the side.”

Enjolras is worryingly silent.

Grantaire’s mouth opens, closes, and he blinks. Joly selling weapons. Joly _using_ weapons. The last time he saw Joly was at the man’s informal wedding to Bossuet and Musichetta, who now that Grantaire thinks about it, probably ended up with matching broken arms from the illegal dealing of weapons part of their life together, not a trampoline accident like they’d said. It’s incredibly hard to picture Joly as anything other than worryingly concerned and endearingly kindhearted, but Grantaire can do it. He just feels a little bit like he’s going to pass out.

Luckily, he doesn’t pass out--he just thinks about that for a while longer, before laughing hysterically, for a good few minutes.

“I worry for you, sometimes,” says Enjolras, which only serves to make Grantaire laugh _harder_.

\--

The first thing Jehan Prouvaire does upon opening his door is look at both of them, narrow his eyes, and say, “neither of you are worth that kind of money.”

Grantaire’s mouth is already open to bitch about the fact that Jehan’s house, as Enjolras put it, happens to be a two bedroom apartment on the fifth fucking floor, so _he_ says, “That’s not fair, is it? I’m pretty sure we’re worth much more money than whatever the bastards after us are offering--and look, Enjolras is even wearing the boots--!”

Enjolras’ left eye twitches. “I thought I told you to say nothing,” he says.

“Woops,” says Grantaire.

“This is not helping your case for more money,” says Jehan.

Grantaire points at him. “Shut up,” he says. “You never told me you were a mobster.”

Jehan raises an eyebrow, and turns to look more fully at Enjolras. “You told him I was a mobster?”

“No,” says Enjolras. “Now are you going to let us in?”

Jehan sighs, but pulls the door open wider. “Try not to track mud everywhere?” he says.

Grantaire gives into the urge, and flips him off on his way in.

\--

He calls Eponine as soon as he has a spare moment, tucked away in Jehan’s bathroom fighting his way into borrowed clothes with the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear.

She starts cursing him out almost immediately.

“Hey,” he manages to interject, when she pauses to breathe and debate which language to use next, “Eponine. Breathe.”

“Fuck you,” she says. He can hear the middle finger accompanied by that, and Bahorel’s laughter is loud and rambunctious. “I told you not to bother me.”

“I know, I know,” says Grantaire. He manages to get one leg into his pants, and hops around a bit before the other goes in as well. “You’re on vacation, do not disturb sign clearly in place, if you call me before I call you I’m going to tell Enjolras all the horrible things you do for a living and also sell your sex-tape, blah, blah, blah.” Grantaire is somewhat proud of the shimmying he does to get the jeans up his legs--they’re ridiculously tight, and leave nothing up to the imagination. Which Grantaire figures is great if you’re going out to a social gathering with your husband, but not so much when you’re trying to carry as many weapons as possible in order to take out the people trying to kill you. “I hate skinny jeans,” he tells Eponine. “When I get out of this and you decide to tag along shopping for my new wardrobe, don’t let me buy any skinny jeans.”

He emerges from the bathroom with the shirt in one hand to find Enjolras seated at Jehan’s kitchen counter nursing what looks like a cup of coffee in one hand and frowning down at his own phone in the other. When he sees Grantaire in the jeans, his eyes go briefly dark and hungry, before the tips of his ears flush and he’s turning back to Jehan.

“Nix that,” says Grantaire. “I am allowed as many skinny jeans as I want--make a note.”

“Grantaire--” tries Eponine.

“I want to hear pens on paper, ‘Ponine,” says Grantaire.

“You’re an asshole,” says Eponine.

“An asshole who looks fabulous in skinny jeans,” says Grantaire.

Eponine laughs. “There,” she says after a moment. “Are you happy?”

“Ecstatic,” says Grantaire. “You should probably amend that to say ‘remind R to go shopping for a new wardrobe,’ though.”

That gets Enjolras’ attention. His head snaps around mid conversation with Jehan, to glare at Grantaire. “Oh, you’ll be buying a new wardrobe,” he says.

Grantaire grins back at him. “Oh, that’s right,” he says. “You have self-control issues whenever I’m naked.”

Eponine makes a choking noise that sounds like it’s trying to be laughter, before saying, “Do you need me to leave you two alone?”

“Ha ha,” says Grantaire. “But actually, I was calling you because the bossmen finally got tired of saving my ass, and I wanted to let you know.”

Eponine is silent for a moment. “You told him, didn’t you,” she says.

Grantaire shrugs. “Well, to be fair,” he says, “it was sort of hard not to, seeing as he had a sniper rifle and I a bullet proof vest.”

Eponine’s silence is slightly more uncomfortable this time. “What?” she says finally.

“It turns out that I have impeccable taste in men,” says Grantaire, brightly, eyeing Enjolras up and down. The man’s buttoned up his shirt and borrowed a pair of pants, but he’s still wearing the boots. “Who just so happen to have the same career aspirations that I do!”

“Enjolras is an assassin,” says Eponine.

“With horrible taste in fashion,” adds Grantaire. And then, to Enjolras, “why _are_ you wearing the boots?”

“We might have to leave at any moment,” says Enjolras, sounding less than pleased about this. “I can’t afford to be barefoot.”

“And you have to admit they make his legs look fabulous,” adds Jehan. He takes a photo with his own phone, and Grantaire very quickly decides that he likes this Jehan. And then, when there is a sudden and foreboding thump and Jehan pulls out what Grantaire realizes is a double barreled shot gun, Grantaire decides that he loves this Jehan.

“Get on the floor,” says Jehan.

“I think I’m in love,” says Grantaire. And then, when Enjolras’ eyes narrow just slightly, “but strictly in a platonic sort of way. There is nothing sexual about my feelings for you, Jehan. Nothing at all.”

“I should hope not,” says Enjolras, somewhat crossly.

“I’m going to hang up, now,” says Eponine, sounding amused. Grantaire envies her.

“Wise choice,” he says. “But remember, wardrobes.”

“Right,” says Eponine. “Do try not to get killed?”

“You wound me,” says Grantaire. “When have I ever tried to get killed?”

Eponine is worryingly silent, and Grantaire’s smile slips, somewhat.

“Give me the fucking phone,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire has just enough time to hear Eponine says something about how they really are made for each other, before Enjolras gets a hand on the phone and ends the call.

“That was rude,” says Grantaire, while Jehan systematically takes out two of their attackers.

Enjolras rolls his eyes and reaches where Jehan points, under the kitchen table, to retrieve shells, which he hands to him. “Sue me,” he says.

“I don’t know if I can,” says Grantaire. “Spousal immunity or whatever.”

“Or whatever.”

“I’d have to ask Bahorel,” says Grantaire. “Who is, by the way, an actual lawyer.”

One of the windows breaks as a woman clad wearing a black balaclava comes storming through, boots first. She takes Jehan out with systematic, and clean strokes, getting behind him and holding a knife at his neck, before training her gun on Enjolras and Grantaire.

“Although to be fair,” continue Grantaire, not moving from his place on the floor, “most of Bahorel’s clients are probably not actual good citizens.”

“I’ll say,” says Enjolras. “Seeing as you were one.”

“I resent that,” says Grantaire. “I’m a perfectly good citizen.”

“Not really, no,” says Enjolras.

The woman gives them a long, terrifying look, and they both raise their hands.

“Are you going to shoot us?” says Grantaire.

The woman lets her gun fall to her side and pulls the balaclava off of her head. She has long, well cared-for-blonde hair, huge blue eyes, and obviously knows her way around a weapon. Grantaire knows her because he did research, and it’s obvious Enjolras did to.

“Cosette,” they both say.

“Valjean’s adopted daughter,” finishes Grantaire.

“Fucking hell,” finishes Enjolras.

“You know her?” says Jehan, from where Cosette still has a knife at his pulse point. “Great. How about lowering weapons.”

Cosette smiles, but doesn’t move. “Nice job,” she says. “Papa paid a lot of men good money to keep that little secret.”

“I am the best,” says Enjolras, and Grantaire. They both turn to look at the other, before Grantaire ducks his head, flushing. Damn Enjolras is attractive in his element. That’s he’s slowly but surely working a hand towards Jehan’s conveniently placed gas stove, is a bonus.

“Can we stand up?” says Grantaire, to be helpful.

“Sure,” says Cosette. Jehan looks less than impressed by their positions, but Grantaire doesn’t think his has any leverage to get out of it. He stands.

A few seconds later, Enjolras does too.

Cosette’s eyes fall down to the boots.

“Say nothing,” says Enjolras.

“They do make your legs look very nice, though,” says Grantaire. He raises both of his hands higher, which gives Enjolras just enough leverage to flip the stove on. “What? I’m totally allowed to say things about your legs. As the one who has those legs wrapped around me most nights, I think I am fully equipped to discuss their merits.”

“I can’t decide if I should shoot you or divorce you,” says Enjolras. “Or both.”

“If you do both, I’m going to have to say shoot me first,” says Grantaire, “because otherwise I won’t stay still long enough to sign the papers.”

“I don’t need your permission to divorce you,” says Enjolras.

“Do you want me to call Bahorel,” says Grantaire, gently. “Because I can call Bahorel.”

“Oh my god,” says Cosette. “You really are married.”

“Yes,” says Jehan, dryly. “Would you like to join our weekly drinking group? We all gather in obscure bars and lament the day they met each other.”

“You do what?” says Enjolras, with a terrifying edge to his voice.

“The worst part was keeping the assassin secret,” continues Jehan, unconcerned. He has an air about him that Grantaire quite likes, and if it didn’t seem very much induced by the knife at his throat, he might try to recreate it. It reminds him of Courfeyrac. And Combeferre, when Combeferre has had a few drinks. “Though apparently we needn’t have worried.”

“Hang on,” says Grantaire, “when you say we, who do you mean?”

Jehan gives him a blank look and raises one eyebrow. “Everyone,” he says.

“Don’t do that,” protests Grantaire. “You look far too much like my husband and we already know I have lots of platonic feelings for you because of the mobster thing, Prouvaire. We wouldn’t want Enjolras to get jealous.”

“When have I ever gotten jealous?” says Enjolras. He starts inching a foot toward the sink, and Grantaire narrows his eyes. Gun under the sink. Very mobster, indeed. “And I never said he was in the mob.”

“I was going to say, where are you getting this mob idea from?” says Cosette. “I did extensive research. Into all of you.”

“You did?” says Grantaire. “Did you like the little touch about me getting into law school? Feuilly dared me to say that, and we were all very drunk at the time.”

“Was that not true?” says Enjolras, attention no longer on the gun. “You said the only thing was the assassin thing.”

“Well obviously I fudged some of the stuff,” says Grantaire. “But everyone fudges things in relationships, Enjolras, honestly.” He takes hold of both of Enjolras’ hands, which lets him move them towards the sink. “Think of it this way; would you have married me if I told you I dropped out of college because my sister was ill and the only way I could pay her medical bills was learning how to shoot straight and not look back?”

Enjolras doesn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he says.

Grantaire doesn’t know what to do with that. His entire chest feels light and airy, and he knows he’s blushing. He’s also still holding Enjolras by both of the hands, and the way Enjolras has taken to stroking the backs of his palms with his thumbs is not helping.

“We talked about this part too,” says Jehan. “When we weren’t cursing the day they ever met, we were sort of toasting the day they met.”

“It is rather sweet,” says Cosette. “The videos really didn’t do it justice.”

“What videos?” says Enjolras, sharply. He goes stiff so fast that his nails bite into Grantaire’s palms, but Grantaire is too busy agreeing with him to care. He gets a hand free and oh so subtly finds the gun hidden there. Again, Grantaire really likes this side of Jehan Prouvaire.

“Yeah, really,” he says, handing Grantaire the gun. “What sort of videos are we talking here?”

Enjolras takes the gun, sets his finger on the trigger, and pauses.

“The ones your employers gave my father when they blackmailed him into posing as a target for both of you,” says Cosette.

That is not at all what Grantaire was expecting. He’s pretty sure that’s not what _anyone_ was expecting, least of all Enjolras, who Grantaire thinks has actually stopped breathing.

“Was that what you were expecting?” he asks Enjolras, to be sure, “because I was not expecting that.”

“Your father was in on it?” says Enjolras.

“You could say,” says Cosette, tightly. She lets go of Jehan, whose eyes darts between the sink and Grantaire, before he starts inching towards the door.

“See,” says Grantaire, brightly. “He wasn’t expecting that either.” He puts a hand on Enjolras’ arm, and begins tapping a very subtle five count onto the skin there. “We were made for each other.”

“Obviously,” says Enjolras, somewhat dryly.

“But don’t worry,” says Cosette, “I’m here to help you.”

“Help us,” repeats Enjolras, unimpressed.

“They have my fiancé,” says Cosette, somewhere around the moment Enjolras pulls the trigger. “I want to get him back, and to make them pay.”

Grantaire has just a split second to think about it mid leap for the door, where he reviews all the videos he watched about Mayor Valjean and the three photos he found of Cosette Fauchelevent in varying stages of development. “Oh,” he says, somewhat faintly, over the roar of the flames. “Okay, that makes sense.” He darts a look at Enjolras, takes in the look on his face, and grabs Cosette by the arm in time to shove her out of the apartment and towards the stairs.

“I hate you,” says Jehan, somewhat miserably, once they’re safely down and out of the building, over the noise of the fire trucks. “That’s the second time you’ve blown up my apartment.”

“Sorry,” says Enjolras, at the same time Grantaire says, with glee, “You’ve blown up Jehan’s apartment before? Was it a work thing, or was it just a cooking accident?”

Enjolras just looks at him for a long moment, before turning and walking away.

So naturally Grantaire chases him, laughing silently, so that he can wrestle him into an awkward hug-kiss-type thing.

“I think I’ll take you up on that bar offer,” he hears Cosette tell Jehan, somewhere around the time Enjolras gives up the ghost and nips his way into Grantaire’s mouth, and he can’t even be bothered to flip her off.

\--

“So wait, hold on,” says Courfeyrac, voice sounding tinny over the phone. “Jehan is a what?”

“A mobster,” says Grantaire, even as Jehan rolls his eyes and Enjolras raises both of his hands. “And Joly sells weapons. You are missing the point.”

“Is anyone in your two’s friend group a normal person?” continues Courfeyrac, sounding exasperated. “This seems highly unlikely.”

“Well, your friend Marius is pretty normal,” says Grantaire.

“My fiancé’s name is Marius,” says Cosette. “Marius Pontmercy.”

“Never mind,” says Grantaire. “Apparently we’re all abnormal.”

“Aw, R,” says Courfeyrac. “Don’t say that--you’re perfectly normal to me.”

“I can hear you, Courfeyrac,” says Enjolras, loudly. “And I don’t have to pretend I can’t threaten to shoot you from great distances, anymore.”

“That’s true--he’s fabulous with a sniper,” says Grantaire, pleasantly.

“Yeah, no, there’s no way you’re worth the kind of money people are asking for you,” says Courfeyrac. “Not unless they have earplugs.”

“Hey,” says Grantaire. “You love my voice.”

“That’s true,” says Courfeyrac. “I would have been very lonely without your dulcet tunes to sooth me to sleep on cold winter nights.”

“Again,” says Enjolras. “Guns, great distances, me.”

“I love it when you talk dirty,” says Grantaire.

“Right, I’m hanging up, now,” says Courfeyrac. “But I’ll put out feelers for this Valjean fellow.”

“He’s the Mayor, Courfeyrac,” cuts in Jehan, sounding exasperated. “He’s not some guy.”

“He kind of is, actually,” says Cosette, but quiets when both Enjolras and Jehan turn to look at her.

“Who’s she?” says Courfeyrac.

“Marius’s fiancée,” says Grantaire. “Now do your damn job.”

“Love you too, R!” says Courfeyrac, brightly. “Smooches!”

He hangs up, and Grantaire spends a few moments listening to the dial tone so he doesn’t have to meet Enjolras’ face.

“I’m not going to be able to walk for a week when we get home, am I,” says Grantaire.

“Divorce,” says Enjolras, which is not a ‘no, Grantaire, don’t be silly, of course you’ll be able to walk.’

Grantaire swallows heavily. “Right,” he says.

\--

Jean Valjean is easily located, as it turns out, if you are young, inspired, and also named Courfeyrac.

“Yeah, it was easy,” says Courfeyrac, on speaker phone. “I didn’t have to work that hard at all.”

“That’s because you did nothing,” interrupts Enjolras, also on the phone. “You called Combeferre.”

He glares at Grantaire, who raises both of his hands. “Hey, it wasn’t me.”

“You told me no one was normal!” explains Courfeyrac. “I had to make sure--Combeferre is the most normal of all of us ever!”

Enjolras shakes his head. “He says you’re the most normal of all of us,” he says, and pauses. “Yeah, I know.” He covers the phone. “Combeferre says to run, Courfeyrac.”

“He’s all talk,” says Courfeyrac, brightly. “Now about Jean Valjean.”

“Can I just say that’s a terrible name?” says Grantaire, and Cosette hits him. He’d actually started liking her, because terrible timing aside, she really was rather resilient. Her father had had her trained in every combat sport known to man from the tender age of eleven, after a run in with the then head of the FBI Javert. Grantaire’s never had the pleasure of meeting this head of FBI Javert, but from the very illegal photos Eponine and Bahorel had faxed over of the man angrily cleaning his pool, he doesn’t think he wants to. (Swimming in the guy's pool when this is all over, however, is incredibly appealing.)

“It kind of is,” says Courfeyrac.

“I’m hitting you mentally,” says Cosette. “By the way.”

“What do I look like?” says Courfeyrac, sounding pleased at the prospect. “Am I a suave, swashbuckling rapscallion?”

“Oh my god,” says Jehan, faintly. He takes the phone from Enjolras. “Combeferre I will pay you to kill him.”

“Why are we paying Combeferre to do the killing?” says Grantaire. “I’m obviously the better choice--not only am I the best, but I even know Courfeyrac!”

“Whoever told you you were the best lied,” says Enjolras. “Combeferre is closer.”

“I’ll have you know Courfeyrac told me I was the best.”

“You were about to make the biggest mistake of your life!” protests Courfeyrac. “It was the only thing I could think of!”

“The biggest mistake of your life?” says Enjolras, sounding confused.

Grantaire clicks the secure server link Courfeyrac has sent him and ignores him. “Mayor Valjean?”

“What was the biggest mistake of your life?” hisses Enjolras, as they wait for the screen to clear.

“Not important!” Grantaire hisses back.

“It’s incredibly important--it’s the biggest mistake of your life,” snaps Enjolras.

“Has it occurred to you that maybe it’s none of your business?” points out Grantaire.

“You made it my business when you married me,” says Enjolras, cutting, and Grantaire gives up.

“That was it, okay?” he says, sharply. “The biggest mistake of my life was almost not marrying you.”

Enjolras’ mouth opens, and then falls closed. “Oh,” he says. “That’s, um.” He trails off, uncertain, and licks his lips.

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, somewhat sheepishly. “Yeah.”

Neither of them look at each other, but when Enjolras reaches out to squeeze Grantaire’s free hand, Grantaire squeezes back.

“Oh my god, give me that,” says Cosette, in time for her father’s face to appear on screen. “Hello, Papa.”

“Cosette!” says Mayor Valjean. “Cosette, thank god.”

Cosette smiles, but says nothing.

“You’re okay,” says Valjean. “Thank god.”

“Yeah, I’m--I was always fine, Papa.”

Her father looks somewhat at a loss, before he says, “What?”

“They didn’t really have me hostage,” continues Cosette. “They just have Marius.”

Valjean pauses, before his face goes grim. “What?” he repeats, but with enough chilling force to make Grantaire’s skin crawl.

Enjolras very subtly shifts towards him, and puts a hand on the back of his neck, where he keeps it for the rest of the conversation, a warm point of contact that keeps Grantaire’s brain on task.

\--

Marius Pontmercy is being kept in a in a warehouse that is very hard to find. When Enjolras and Grantaire and Cosette eventually locate it, they leave Jehan with strict instructions to call in the cavalry, before strapping into bullet proof vests, and collecting an arsenal; Joly had shown up sometime that night sans Musichetta and Bossuet, in an unassuming but weapon-laden van.

Grantaire isn’t sure why he’s all that surprised when Enjolras shows up with the same three knives, an M4 assault rifle, and the bloody Glock; he himself has forgone the Browning for a 1911 pistol, a series of flash bangs, and his own knife; all of Cosette’s weapons are hidden, except for her own M4.

“What?” she says, when she sees Enjolras frowning at her. “You didn’t think you were going to get all of the fun, did you?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, pats Enjolras on the shoulder once, and then, when the other man actually jumps, somewhat, hauls him in for a kiss.

“I am so glad I get to stay in the car,” says Jehan, sounding relieved.

“I think it’s sweet,” says Cosette. “They’re finally being honest with each other.”

“Yeah,” says Jehan. “Honest about their ridiculous weapon kinks.”

Grantaire shoots Enjolras something of a conspiratory look, before letting him investigate the bullet proof vest.

“I’m not going to die, Apollo,” he says, quietly, when Enjolras is somewhere behind him. It’s an old reference, to a bunch of terrible paintings he made young and in love (and still makes, because secrets aside, he’s  never stopped being in love.) He doesn’t expect Enjolras to get it, since Enjolras had been asleep that first time Grantaire whispered the name against his skin, but he hears the other man’s sharp intake of breath, and grins, a little. “So you were awake.”

“We fell asleep around five in the evening,” says Enjolras. “It’s hard to sleep in later than eight, after that.”

“You did a good job of pretending,” Grantaire says. “You had me fooled for about the first year?”

“Only that long?”

“Well, after the first year, you stopped being self-conscious about your octopus-like tendencies,” says Grantaire, because that’s safer than admitting to learning the little breath Enjolras takes when he’s passing from sleeping to waking.  “At which point I learned to stop hogging the covers and to sleep naked.”

Someone, probably Jehan, chokes, but Enjolras doesn’t look away.

“Oh,” he says.

“So, um, I take it you’re okay with it?”

“Yeah,” says Enjolras. “It’s, um, sweet.”

Grantaire pretends that doesn’t make his chest feel all funny. “Good,” he says. “Because I might have an entire section of paintings dedicated to the sun god and I wouldn’t want to have to burn them.”

“Burn them,” says Enjolras, sounding aghast. “Why would you burn perfectly good paintings!”

“You think my creepy paintings of you are perfectly good?” says Grantaire. He’s trying for idle curiosity, but he ends up sounding far too invested in the answer.

“I think all of your paintings are perfectly good,” says Enjolras. “I mean.”

“Oh my god,” says Cosette. “I think I need to hug you two.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes at her, flips her off, and tries very hard not to look too besotted when Enjolras glares at her.

“You will do no such thing,” he says, pointing at her.

Cosette raises the hand not holding the M4. “No sir,” she says. “I will not be touching Grantaire at all. My intentions are perfectly honorable.”

Grantaire blinks. “Hey, does this make me the kept man in this situation?” he says. “Why am I the kept man? What about me screams take me in a manly fashion upon this here hard surface?”

Joly makes a wounded noise and gets back into his car.

Cosette and Enjolras turn to Grantaire with dual expressions of condescension

“Right,” says Enjolras. “I’ll cover you.”

“I thought you were going to say I’ll cover you?” says Cosette, but she sounds pleased.

“Hey,” says Grantaire. “Hey, no this conversation is not over.”

“You obviously know what you’re doing,” says Enjolras, “which is more than I can say about this one.”

“ _Hey_!” repeats Grantaire. “I know what I’m doing!”

“Right,” says Cosette, ignoring him. “Good plan.”

“This is a terrible plan,” mutters Jehan, from his place by the van, “seeing as you are all _still talking_.”

Grantaire opens his mouth, and closes it. “You have a point,” he says, more to himself than anything, before reaching out to haul Enjolras back in close again. “Please don’t get shot,” he says. “Shoot a lot of people who are not me, and don’t get shot.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but lets his fingers play along the skin of Grantaire’s wrists. “You too,” he says.

There’s a slightly awkward pause where they just look at each other, before Jehan says, “God it’s going to be awful on jobs now that you two know each other’s secrets,” and ruins the moment.

\--

As it turns out, Marius Pontmercy is exactly the kind of charming, unassuming, and generally good person that Grantaire remembers him to be. Not that Grantaire remembers meeting Marius, since most of that evening was spent freaking about his looming nuptials, but the points still stands. When Grantaire met Marius Pontmercy all those long years ago, he thought to himself, ‘this boy is either going to wreck the world, or the world is going to wreck him.’

When he opens the door to the warehouse and finds Marius in the middle of what appears to be an unfair game of charades with his captors, Grantaire very quickly decides that it’s the world that’s about to be wrecked.

“Marius,” exclaims Cosette, sounding breathless. “You’re alive.”

“Cosette!” says Marius, pleasantly. “You’re alive!”

“Is this her?” says one of Marius’ guards.

“I do have to admit she’s sort of pretty,” says the other.

Grantaire turns to Enjolras, and then to Marius’ guards, who both have their hands in the air in lieu of the weapons all pointed at them, and then back to Enjolras.

“You got this covered?” he asks Cosette, who knocks out the guard on the left with the butt of her gun.

“Yep,” she says brightly, backhanding the other before he can lunge at her. “You two should probably vanish, anyway. Papa’s going to be pissed, and he’s not one to sit on the sidelines.”

Enjolras looks at her for a moment, before nodding. “Thank you,” he says.

“No problem,” says Cosette. She hasn’t untied Marius and is climbing into his lap, and Grantaire very quickly decides that is time to go.

They exit the warehouse in a hurried fashion, but since there are no explosions, Grantaire is counting it as a win.

“So that was fun,” he says to Enjolras.

“You have a very odd definition of fun,” says Enjolras, but he sounds amused. “Marius seemed nice.”

“You do remember meeting him, right?” says Grantaire. “He was at our wedding.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I’d like to think I remember our wedding better than you do,” he says. “I know all about the liquid courage.”

Grantaire blinks, and thinks about that. He remembers being scared out of his mind, hiding out in the middle of Paris on the run from at least three governments and sitting at a hotel bar drinking terrible cocktails. He remembers Enjolras, wearing too big sunglasses and an honest to god white suit, looking sunburned and out of his depth. He remembers smiling across the bar at him, and falling into bed with him, and the slightly wondrous look in his eyes the first time, the look that Grantaire thought would fade, over the years, but hasn’t. He doesn’t, however, remember any liquid courage.

“No courage,” he says. “There was nothing brave about me marrying you.”

Enjolras snorts. “Don’t be stupid,” he says, gently. “Everything about marrying me was brave.”

Grantaire thinks about _that_ , and finds he really can’t argue. “Alright,” he concedes. “But I think this part is braver.”

“Which part?” says Enjolras. “The part where people try to kill us or where we kill them instead?”

“Oh, we’re killing the bossmen, then,” says Grantaire.

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras. “They’re not going to let us live normal lives.”

“No,” agrees Grantaire. “But when we’re done killing them, I don’t really want a normal life, anyway.”

“No?”

“I mean, I would like another house,” says Grantaire. “Because our house was pretty fabulous--you had your closet and I had my basement.”

Enjolras pauses. “Okay?” he says. “Can’t we just have an armory?”

“No, that’s far too obvious,” says Grantaire. “We want to element of surprise.”

“Oh no, you’ve caught me unawares in my home all alone without any pants, let me just go into my closet and gets some?” tries Enjolras.

“I should hope no assassins catch you unawares alone without pants,” says Grantaire. “I’d probably have to kill them.”

“What makes you think I couldn’t kill them myself?” says Enjolras.

“Fair,” says Grantaire. They’ve reached where they parked the car, and can just make out Jehan and Joly on a computer. Joly is also on the phone, and they appear to be arguing. “But you love me,” says Grantaire. “You’d let me have the pleasure of killing them.” He considers Joly and Jehan, trying to figure out if they’re still able to hear their conversations.

“That’s probably true,” says Enjolras.

Joly visibly reacts, and Grantaire grins. “See,” he says. “I knew there was a reason I married you.”

“I thought it was the fabulous head,” says Enjolras, catching on.

Grantaire only grins wider. “That might have had a little to do with it,” he says, reaching out to catch Enjolras by a hand and to spin him in close for the third time that evening. “But mostly it was because you refused to let me have the bed the first night.”

“What?” says Enjolras.

“Because at that point I knew that marrying you wasn’t going to be sunshine or rainbows or kittens.”

“What are you even talking about--”

Grantaire kisses him. “Marrying you was going to fun,” he says, grinning. “Now let’s go blow some people up.” He lets go of Enjolras with one last kiss so that he can go striding across the parking lot with great aplomb.

“Their houses, Grantaire,” says Enjolras, from behind him. “We’re not blowing up actual people.”

“Killjoy,” says Grantaire.

“Realist,” says Enjolras.

“Made for each other,” choruses Jehan, and Joly, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre from the computer screen.

Grantaire looks at Enjolras, looks back at the screen, and laughs.

“That we are,” he says. “That we are.”

Enjolras reaches out to pull the door closed, and smiles back. “To my eternal horror,” he says, “but yeah.” He pulls a face, and Grantaire hits him.

\--

“You are making a terrible face,” says Enjolras.

“Shut up,” says Grantaire, without moving his lips. “You are distracting me.”

“Your face is awful,” continues Enjolras, unperturbed. “Stop making it.”

“Hey, you married me for this face,” says Grantaire, risking minimal facial movement. “You’re stuck with it.”

“I most definitely did not marry you for that face,” says Enjolras. “The only faces you made when I married you were the face you make when I’m--”

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” says Courfeyrac, brightly. “It’s not even noon, guys. We cannot start drinking now.”

“What does our talking have to do with you all drinking?” Enjolras tries to ask, but the entire room starts laughing.

“Talking,” says Eponine. “That is not talking.”

“This is talking,” add Bahorel, from his place beside her. They’re sharing a seat, which Grantaire finds cute, and have been trading horror stories with Bossuet and Musichetta all morning. “You two are flirting.”

“I’m pretty sure flirting is for people who aren’t married,” says Enjolras. “But I could be wrong.”

“Mm, no, see,” says Courfeyrac. “Flirting is for people who want to be sleep together but are not sleeping together at present. Flirting is a very nice way of saying would it be okay with you if I jumped your bones.”

Grantaire snorts. “Well then you’re definitely wrong,” he says. “Because I have no problems asking Enjolras if it’s okay if I jump his bones.”

“Can we take the photos already?” says Enjolras.

“No, I want to hear the rest of this story,” says  Combeferre. “Go on.”

“You’re all dead to me,” says Enjolras, almost sulking.

“Quick, take his photo now,” says Grantaire. “He doesn’t believe me when I say he has a pouting face, and I want it forever immortalized on his passport, so every time we have to flee countries I can look at it and be reminded why I married him.”

“You married me for my face?” says Enjolras, sounding, actually a little flattered, and Grantaire has the decency to step in front of him when their friends throw whatever they can find at him.

“Yes,” he says, smiling. “I married you for your face.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras, smiling back. “Good. I did too.”

Courfeyrac makes a high pitched noise in the background, Combeferre’s lips twitch, Eponine fakes gagging, and Feuilly has the decency to snap both of their pictures.

“You look very happy,” say the people at the airport. “Just married?”

Grantaire reaches out and takes Enjolras hand in his. “Sure,” he says. “You could even go so far to say that this is the beginning of our new lives together.”

It’s probably one of the worst lines Grantaire’s delivered in his life, and Grantaire once went undercover as an Elvis Impersonator, but Enjolras just laughs, and sets their luggage onto the scale with slightly more force than he intended.

\--

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/).


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